Each month, Imelda Richárd, Prison Ministry Coordinator for the Archdiocese of Atlanta, shares stories from the immigration detention unit in Atlanta’s federal prison. Names are changed for protection.
As we sat together during our first conversation, he repeated the same words over and over again: “And now everything has changed.”
Each week, I visit the ICE detention unit housed within the Federal Correctional Institution (FCI Atlanta). During each visit, I meet one-on-one with eight to ten men who are being held in immigration detention. We spend about fifteen to twenty minutes together talking, praying, and simply sharing whatever is on their hearts. These brief encounters have become a sacred space where they know they can speak freely, shed tears if they need to, and be reminded that they are not alone.
To protect the privacy of the individuals entrusted to our care, I have changed the name of the person in this reflection.
One of those men is C.
C. has lived in the United States for more than three decades. He is married and the father of three children. His oldest daughter will be a rising senior at Cristo Rey Jesuit High School this fall, and his middle son will begin his freshman year there in August. As he spoke about his family, his face lit up with pride. College acceptance letters had already begun arriving at their home, and together they were preparing for the exciting—and sometimes overwhelming—process of deciding where their daughter would continue her education.
Then, in the middle of May, everything changed.
On his way to work one morning, C. was detained by ICE.
As we sat together during our first conversation, he repeated the same words over and over again: “And now everything has changed.”
He wept openly as he spoke about his wife, his children, and the uncertainty that now surrounded all of them.
One of the greatest privileges of this ministry is witnessing these moments of vulnerability. Many of these men feel they must remain strong at all times. During these individual visits, however, they discover a place where they do not have to hide their emotions or pretend that everything is fine. They can grieve, cry, pray, and entrust their fears to God without fear of being judged. In a place where so much has been taken from them, these few minutes allow them to reclaim something no one should ever lose: the freedom to weep, to hope, and to remember that they are beloved sons of God.
When I visited C. again the following week, I immediately noticed a change. Although his circumstances had not improved, something within him had. He told me how much peace he had experienced after our first conversation and prayer together. For a little while, he had been able to lay down the burden he had been carrying alone. It was a beautiful reminder that while we cannot change someone’s circumstances, God can begin to change a heart through a simple encounter of prayer, listening, and compassionate presence.
Last Friday, C. was transferred to the Irwin County Detention Center in Ocilla, Georgia. Hearing that news weighed heavily on my heart. The facility has been the subject of significant public scrutiny in recent years because of allegations of serious medical neglect and abuse in immigration detention. Although it has since reopened, its history remains a source of concern for those who accompany detained immigrants and pray for their safety, dignity, and well-being.
As C. begins yet another chapter of this unexpected journey, I ask that we keep him, his wife, his children, and all families separated by immigration detention in our prayers. My hope is that, wherever he is, he continues to experience the same peace he described after our first conversation—that quiet assurance that God has not abandoned him and that the Church continues to walk with him.
Experiences like C.’s remind us that detention ministry is not primarily about having the right words or solving impossible situations. It is about showing up. It is about listening with compassion, praying with those who suffer, and making visible the presence of Christ in places where hope can be difficult to find.
Sometimes, fifteen or twenty minutes are all we have. Yet in those few moments, God reminds someone who feels forgotten that he is still seen, still loved, and never alone.
